Greven nodded. "I can hardly believe it. All that's left to remind me I've had leprosy is this tremor," he said, holding out a hand.
"I'm sure I can heal that too," Piven said. "If you'll let me," he added.
Greven watched the orphaned adopted son of the Valisars leave the cottage quietly. He frowned. He'd never questioned that he'd done the right thing in stealing the boy away from the barbarian. That big black bird of omen had led him to Brighthelm and to the child in need - he was sure of it. He'd fought the inclination to follow the bird but he had especially fought getting so close to city folk, and particularly folk of the palace. But the raven had been per sis tent, staring at him for days, then when Greven finally agreed to follow, returning time and again, swooping and demanding that he continue on the pathway. And though Greven knew where the bird was leading him, he didn't know why and he feared what he might discover.
He found a helpless, invalid child. And the bird had somehow called to that child, for Piven had looked up and looked straight at them, even though they had been hidden in the tree line on the edge of the forest. The boy had risen and without any hesitation had moved toward them. Greven had felt the irresistible pull toward the young boy, and in spite of every screaming reservation, he had held out a hand and welcomed the child.
Their life had been quiet and uneventful, each of them deriving security from the other. And while Greven offered Piven a life, the boy - fast becoming a young man - had offered Greven hope.
He'd been running from the threat of his pursuer all of his life, so why now, when he was more free, more isolated than he'd been in a long time, did he feel so anxious?
People knew him as Jon Lark, the herbalist who lived with his son, Petor. Once again he was raising a child alone. He'd known about this adopted son of the Valisars who had been mute, indeed lost in his mind - everyone in Penraven knew of the beloved Piven. But within days of their first clasping hands Piven had shocked him by talking. At first it had been halting and of course childish. He had, after all, only been five. Now he was a gangly youth of fifteen anni.
Greven had hoped the boy would forget his past but Piven had forgotten nothing; his recall in fact was daunting. He could describe Brighthelm in detail, walking Greven mentally through the various chambers. He spoke lovingly of his parents especially his mother, whose face he remembered so well that he had drawn her for Greven, and he could see that Piven caught her likeness with uncanny skill. Most of all he talked about his brother, Leo, and had talked a great deal about reuniting with his sibling. He never spoke of Leo as his half-brother, nor did he speak of the years he had been trapped in his silence, his own world.
Greven had tried to discover why Piven had been unable to communicate and, more to the point, how he could suddenly speak so well and so easily for a person who had not used his voice. When he asked Piven the boy would shrug and become introverted and Greven had long ago decided that he was fortunate to have the child at all - and animated besides. The whys and wherefores of his life before they shared it were of no relevance - or so Greven told himself. He himself never spoke of the life he'd had before Piven, and when word had filtered down through the folk who lived among and around the forest that Lily had looked for him, he had resisted the deep urge to answer those inquiries.
But what did puzzle, and to some extent unnerve Greven, was the youngster's ability with magic. The extent of that skill remained untapped, and if Greven had his way, that was how it would remain. But Piven was still a very young man, with all the foibles of youth. There had been occasions on which Piven had shown off, hoping to impress Greven with what he could do. And there were other times, when he was angry, that Greven feared for what havoc the child might wreak. He mostly contented himself with healing magics but Greven was worried